


Baker Bois

by Vertiga



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter/Funhaus RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Grand Theft Auto Setting, Baking, Birthday Cake, Domestic Fluff, Fake AH Crew, Fluff, Gen, kitchen disasters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-27
Updated: 2015-11-27
Packaged: 2018-05-03 16:22:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5298083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vertiga/pseuds/Vertiga
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Gents are out of town, and Gavin wants to make a birthday cake. Who is Michael to say no?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Baker Bois

‘It’s my birthday tomorrow, boi!’ Gavin exclaims, throwing himself over the back of the couch to land in Michael’s lap.

Michael curls up, the breath huffing out of him, but long experience with Gavin’s cat-like tendencies lets him keep hold of his controller.

‘Yeah, and?’ he asks, mashing buttons to make Evie Frye brutally beat people with her sword stick. ‘You’re not getting your present early, and no, I’m not telling you what it is, so don’t ask!’

Gavin pauses for a moment, looking pleased that Michael has got him a present, and Michael feels a little twinge of fondness for him. Gavin’s not as confident as he looks, though it’s easy to forget it with the gold sunglasses and the gold gun and the posturing he does in public. He genuinely hadn’t been sure his best friend would have got him anything.

‘I want a cake – like a spongy British one, not the weird ice cream things you have here.’ Gavin says, staring up at Michael from his lap.

‘So get one,’ Michael says. ‘I’m pretty sure the half-mil we got from the Maze Bank last week will cover a fucking cake!’

‘But I want to make one, Michael!’ Gavin says. ‘I want to make a lovely cake with my lovely little boi!’

Michael snorts. ‘You’re banned from the kitchen, moron.’

‘But Geoff’s not here. Jack’s not here. Ryan would let me because he’s not bloody boring, but he’s not here anyway. I want to make a cake!’

‘Ryan’s barely a Gent,’ Michael remarks, rather than acknowledging the other half of the statement. He’s mostly doing it to wind Gavin up, and it works.

‘Michael!’ Gavin complains, mashing his head into Michael’s stomach. ‘Stop being mingy and make a cake with me!’

Michael sighs, pausing the game and throwing his head back in mock exasperation. He’s honestly amused by the idea of letting Gavin loose in Geoff’s carefully guarded kitchen, with enough supervision to stop him actually burning it down, but it’s more fun to make Gavin drag him into it.

‘Do you even know what goes in a cake?’ he asks.

Gavin rolls over, using Michael’s thigh as a pillow as he pulls out his phone.

‘Victoria sponge,’ he reads, having apparently googled it ahead of time. Michael is actually impressed that that much preparation has gone into the request – Gavin really does want to bake.

‘Caster sugar, soft butter, eggs, flour, baking powder, vanilla, milk,’ Gavin recites. ‘Then jam and cream for the middle. It’s the easiest cake in the world, Michael!’

‘We’ve probably got all that. Jam is jelly, right?’

‘Jelly with fruit bits in.’

‘Okay, what’s caster sugar?’ Michael asks. He’s competent enough to feed himself without setting things on fire, but he’s never really baked anything before.

‘White sugar. I know we’ve got that, Jack dumps it in her coffee every bloody day!’

‘Why didn’t they just fucking say that then?’ Michael grumbles. ‘Gotta be stupid and fancy about it!’

‘Come on Michael, it’ll be fun! Come and bake with me.’

‘I’d rather get baked,’ Michael says, a smile twitching at the corner of his lips. He can’t keep teasing Gavin forever.

‘We can get drunk!’ Gavin says brightly. ‘That sounds top.’

Michael is pretty sure the only thing more certain to end in disaster than Gavin in a kitchen is _drunk_ Gavin in a kitchen, but he’s also sure that it’s going to be funny as hell to watch.

‘Well, the Gents did fuck off and leave us,’ he says, as though considering it.

‘Yeah they did, the bastards!’ Gavin agrees. ‘Business upstate my arse, they’re off on a little weekend retreat somewhere, getting drunk in a hot tub. Without us!’

‘And it is your birthday tomorrow,’ Michael allows, rubbing his chin theatrically.

‘It is!’

‘Alright, let’s see if we have everything,’ he suggests, sighing as though making a huge concession.

Gavin cheers and rolls off the couch.

‘Yes! Gavvy and Micoo, world class chefs!’ he crows, scrambling for the kitchen.

Michael throws his controller down on the couch and follows, already laughing at Gavin’s enthusiasm.

Gavin pours them both generously alcoholic glasses of rum and coke, clinking his glass happily against Michael’s.

‘It’s my birthday!’ he toasts, then downs half the glass.

‘It’s your birthday tomorrow,’ Michael corrects, then takes a good swig of his own drink. It barely tastes of coke at all, and he coughs as the liquor burns its way down his throat.

‘God, that’s so much rum,’ he croaks, and Gavin beams at him.

‘No point drinking it if it won’t make you drunk, right?’ he says, then tops up both their glasses.

Gavin takes another long pull of his rum-with-a-hint-of-coke mixture, then throws open every cupboard in the kitchen, immediately disrupting Geoff’s orderly storage system as he shoves things around.

Michael gets the eggs, milk, butter, and cream out of the fridge and watches in amusement as Gavin bangs jars of flour and sugar on the counter.

‘We’ve only got grape jelly, peanut butter, or honey,’ Michael says, looking at the jars in the sandwich cupboard.

Gavin pauses, pursing his lips. ‘Never had it with grape in the middle,’ he says. ‘But it’s fruit, right? It’ll still work.’

Michael shrugs. ‘If you say so. It’s your cake.’

‘Yeah it is!’ Gavin says delightedly. ‘And I like grape. It’ll be fine.’ 

Michael dutifully puts a jar of grape jelly on the counter, surveying the row of ingredients. It doesn’t look like it’ll make a cake, but what does he know?

‘Is that brown flour?’ he asks, frowning at the mason jar.

‘It’s Geoff’s bread flour, it’s all we’ve got,’ Gavin says. ‘The recipe just says flour, though, so it’ll be fine. It’ll just be a brown cake.’

Michael is pretty sure wholemeal bread flour and cake flour are different for a reason, but what the hell? It’s going to be way more fun to just let Gavin get on with it.

‘Okay, what’s first?’

Gavin looks down at his phone, brow furrowed in concentration. 

‘Mix one cup of soft butter and one cup of sugar.’

Michael picks up the butter and drops it on the counter with a bang.

‘Not exactly soft,’ he points out.

‘Let’s stick it in the microwave for a bit,’ Gavin suggests.

They cut roughly a cup’s worth of butter and put it in a bowl in the microwave. Michael stops Gavin from shoving in the plastic measuring cup, since accidentally melting plastic in the microwave is a bit too close to actually setting the penthouse on fire.

Gavin mashes buttons until it starts humming, and turns away, taking the opportunity to drink some more rum.

‘Right, give that a couple of minutes,’ he declares. ‘We need to beat four eggs as well.’

Michael cracks the eggs, since he might actually end up eating a piece of this cake, and he hates the sudden crunch of bits of shell.

There are sizzling noises coming from the microwave as Gavin beats the eggs, splashing liquid yolk all over himself.

‘God, you’re a disaster,’ Michael says, laughing at him from well outside the splash zone.

‘I wish I’d worn something else,’ Gavin says, looking forlornly at his favourite pale-blue shirt.

‘It’ll probably wash out,’ Michael assures him.

There’s a strong smell of hot grease by the time the microwave beeps, and when Gavin opens the door there’s a haze of oily smoke. Michael throws a pair of oven mitts at him before he can reach inside, since Gavin severely burning his hands on a red-hot glass bowl isn’t his idea of a good time.

‘Bloody hell, that’s a bit more melted than I thought,’ Gavin says, when he pulls out the bowl. 

The butter is a sizzling, spitting mass of yellow oil, and Michael laughs aloud as Gavin dumps the bowl on the counter and backs away, grabbing his drink for courage.

‘Three minutes might have been a bit too long,’ he says.

‘It’s still butter though,’ Gavin says, putting his suddenly empty glass aside. ‘It’ll just be easier to mix now!’

He looks genuinely pleased at the idea, and Michael doesn’t know enough about baking to know if he’s being an idiot or not.

Gavin pours himself another extremely alcoholic drink, and tops Michael’s up again. He’s starting to look loose and flushed, and Michael is pretty sure he’s well on his way to drunk. Still, it’s a happy kind of drunk, so he’s not worried. Drunk Gavin is a good time.

Gavin measures out a cup of sugar, only spilling a little of it – alright, a lot of it – all over the counter as he tips up the jar.

He dumps it into the bowl of boiling butter and starts stirring as it melts. It ends up as a slightly thicker yellow goop, which Michael is pretty sure isn’t the desired result.

‘Pass the eggs,’ Gavin says. ‘They’re meant to go in next.’

He tips the beaten eggs into the hot sugar mix, and immediately the goop thickens.

‘That’s more like it!’ Gavin crows, stirring vigorously.

There’s a strong eggy smell in the air, and Michael is pretty sure Gavin’s just accidentally cooked the eggs, making a sugary bowl of scrambled eggs rather than a fluffy cake mix. Still, the lumpy consistency does look more like the cake mix he’s seen on TV while flipping idly past cooking shows. Maybe Gavin is doing okay.

‘Flour goes in last, so let’s have a bit of this,’ Gavin says, measuring out three tablespoons of milk, and spilling about half a glass on the floor. ‘Bollocks!’

Michael throws a towel down to soak it up before Gavin can slip and break his ass on the tiled floor.

‘Cheers, Michael, my lovely little Michael,’ Gavin says, beaming at him.

Michael laughs. ‘You’re drunk already, Gav!’

‘I’m a drunken master chef,’ Gavin insists, grinning, and reaches for the baking powder.

Michael takes it off him after he’s spilled almost half of the box, measuring two teaspoons into the mixture.

‘Was there anything else before the flour?’ Michael asks.

Gavin squints at his phone. ‘Oh, vanilla!’ he says, picking up the tiny bottle.

He cracks it open and inhales deeply, his eyes rolling back in his head.

‘It smells like heaven, Michael. Smell it!’

Michael takes a sniff, and it does smell like the sweetest, most enticing deliciousness in the world. 

‘We should drink some,’ Gavin suggests. ‘It smells so good!’

‘There’s not much here,’ Michael cautions. ‘Let’s put what we need in the cake first.’

‘Good idea, Michael. You have the best ideas,’ Gavin agrees, handing over the bottle.

Michael measures a teaspoon and a half of sweet-smelling vanilla into the cake, and there’s still enough left for each of them to have a sip.

‘Drink it, Michael,’ Gavin urges, watching him with a big, drunk grin on his face.

Michael tips his head back and takes a mouthful of vanilla essence. The moment it hits his tongue, the beautiful sweet smelling vanilla turns into the most evil, bitter, foul tasting substance in the world.

Michael gags instantly, dropping the bottle and stumbling over to the sink to spit it out.

Gavin is doubled over, squeaking with laughter as he coughs and gags.

‘What the fuck is that?’ Michael demands. ‘What the fuck did you do to me?’

‘It’s so bad!’ Gavin says delightedly, squeaking the words out between breathless bouts of near-silent laughter. ‘It smells so good but it tastes so bad.’

‘You’re a piece of shit,’ Michael says, running water and shoving his tongue under the tap. ‘You knew it was awful!’

‘I wanted to see if you could drink it,’ Gavin says. ‘You’re so good at eating horrible things!’

‘I have limits!’ Michael insists, giving up on trying to wash his mouth out with water and swilling it out with his rum and coke instead. ‘And usually I get something out of it!’

‘I wasn’t even filming,’ Gavin says, sounding slightly mournful.

‘What a fucking waste!’ Michael agrees.

‘But, but Michael, if I’d been filming you’d have known it was fishy, right?’ Gavin points out. ‘You wouldn’t have drunk it!’

‘I might have, but it would have fucking cost you something,’ Michael grouses. He takes a long pull of his drink, letting the booze burn the awful taste off his tongue. ‘God, you’re the worst human being I know.’

Gavin pouts. ‘That’s not nice.’

‘You’re not nice! Are you kidding?! You just made me drink Satan’s ass-water!’

Gavin doubles up laughing again at the description, and Michael starts grinning despite himself. It’s not like he hasn’t tricked Gavin into doing awful things before.

‘God, you suck,’ he says, and it comes out fond. ‘Let’s finish this fucking cake. It’s just flour left, right?’

Gavin nods, too paralysed with laughter to speak.

Michael dumps a cup of brown flour into the bowl and stirs it up, making sure to cover Gavin in flour dust as he does.

‘Michael, Michael, stop it!’ Gavin protests, trying to brush it out of his hair. It sticks to his hair gel, coating his messy spikes in something close to glue. It’s going to be a bitch to wash out.

When the cake is about as well mixed as it’s going to get, given that Michael is pretty sure they’ve screwed up somewhere along the way, he looks for a tin. 

‘What shape are we baking this?’ he asks.

‘It says to put it in two little round tins, but we’ve only got this one,’ Gavin says, waving a loaf tin. ‘So we’ll bake one big cake and slice it in half for the middle stuff.’

‘If you say so,’ Michael says with a shrug, and tips the lumpy mixture into the tin. It oozes and glops out of the bowl, and he has to help it along with the spatula, then smooth it into something close to a flat top.

‘Right, oven on to 350,’ Gavin says, turning the dial. ‘And it’ll take 25 minutes.’

‘Okay then, done!’ Michael says, opening the oven door and slinging the cake inside. ‘Pour me another drink?’

They go and flop on the couch with full drinks and the bottle of rum on hand, watching reruns of Mythbusters and speculating on how they could have made a bigger boom.

The sweet, eggy cake smell spreads through the penthouse, but after a few episodes it starts taking on a burnt edge.

‘Gav, are you, are you timing this cake thing?’ Michael asks, slurring slightly. It’s possible he’s catching up to Gavin’s level of drunk.

Gavin blinks at him, then pulls out his phone and squints at it. ‘Oops?’ he says, raising his eyebrows.

Michael giggles and levers himself off the couch. ‘I think it’s had long enough? It smells like burnt toast.’

He grabs the oven mitts and opens the oven door, letting out a cloud of hot, smoky air that forces him back.

‘Yeah, it’s definitely done, he says, pulling out the lumpy brown and black mess, lurking sullenly in the bottom of the loaf tin.

‘We did it!’ Gavin shouts, his wobbly arms showing triumphantly over the top of the couch.

‘It looks kinda flat,’ Michael says, poking at the crunchy top. ‘It’s supposed to puff up, right?’

‘It’ll be a single layer cake,’ Gavin calls. ‘We can put jam on the top!’

Michael turns the oven off and leaves the cake on the side, going back to the couch with the oven mitts still on so he can flail them at Gavin.

‘Michael, stop!’ Gavin protests, trying drunkenly to protect his head. ‘Be a nice boy, we baked a cake together!’

‘We’re the best,’ Michael agrees, flopping down half on top of Gavin.

‘To the cake!’ Gavin toasts, raising the almost-empty bottle of rum and taking a swig before tilting it to Michael’s mouth.

Gavin is warm, and surprisingly comfortable for someone so skinny. Michael uses his tummy as a pillow and lets the rum buzz wash over him.

~

He is rudely awoken from his lovely nap several hours later, by a screech that reaches almost ultra-sonic pitch.

The nice drunk haze has receded, and he squints at the ceiling in annoyance, wondering what the noise was.

He is swiftly answered by Geoff’s angry red face appearing upside-down in his vision as he leans over the back of the couch.

‘What the fuck did you do to my kitchen?’ he demands.

Michael turns over, groaning as Gavin shifts under him and sticks a bony elbow in his side.

‘Gavin wanted to bake a proper British cake for his birthday,’ Michael explains, scrubbing a hand over his eyes and reluctantly sitting up. Geoff doesn’t look likely to fuck off and let him sleep any time soon.

When he spots the disaster zone that is the kitchen, he understands why. In the cold light of sobriety, it looks far worse than he remembered.

‘Oh, shit,’ he mumbles.

There is egg and melted butter and lumpy cake mix splattered on the cupboards, the fridge, the ceiling, and even though he can’t see it from his current position, Michael’s pretty sure he remembers spilling milk all over the floor. Dirty bowls, spoons, measuring cups, open jars of sugar and flour, and the now-warm milk and cream are scattered carelessly across the countertop. 

Vanilla essence is splashed across the surface, the empty bottle left lying on its side where Michael flung it down in disgust. Flour dust has settled _everywhere_ , including on the sofa cushions where Gavin’s filthy hair and clothes have rubbed across the upholstery.

Jack and Ryan are standing by the breakfast bar, arms folded, surveying the carnage like air crash investigators at the scene of a still-smoking Airbus.

Gavin is finally waking up, bleary-eyed and slow, but he sits up hurriedly when he spots Geoff.

‘You’re back!’ he says, and it sounds somewhere between happy and guilty as he spots the mess in the kitchen. ‘We missed you!’

‘Uh, we made you a cake?’ Michael tries, in the face of Geoff’s livid expression.

‘You made a charcoal brick!’ Geoff yells. ‘And even if you hadn’t burnt it, it wouldn’t have been a cake!’

‘We followed a recipe, Geoffrey,’ Gavin insists, turning on the kicked-puppy expression that makes it so damn difficult to stay angry at him.

‘No you didn’t! You can’t make cake with wholemeal bread flour, and coffee sugar isn’t caster sugar, morons! That’s granulated sugar,’ Geoff says, but he’s already sounding less angry and more exasperated. He’s terrible at staying mad at his lads.

‘We didn’t know,’ Gavin says. 

Geoff locks eyes with Michael, turning on the “sad and disappointed parent” face, and Michael hates how it makes his guts swoop. ‘Michael, you know Gavin’s not allowed to cook, why didn’t you stop him?’ 

‘It was Gavin’s birthday cake,’ Michael protests. ‘Who was I to say no?’

‘The responsible one!’ Geoff insists.

‘Well, let’s not be unreasonable,’ Ryan puts in from the background, sounding amused.

‘You left us, and it’s my birthday!’ Gavin insists petulantly.

‘Well, Happy Birthday, Gav,’ Geoff says. ‘We got you a fucking kitchen disaster, and you get to have fun cleaning it up!’

Gavin’s face falls, and Geoff softens a little.

‘And when you’ve finished, and taken a shower, because you’re a fucking disgusting mess, then we’ll take you out for a Birthday dinner, how about that?’

‘Will there be cake?’ Gavin asks hopefully, already starting to regain his cocky grin.

Geoff laughs. ‘Yeah, Gav, there’ll be cake.’

**Author's Note:**

> For the prompt "Attempting to make a cake".  
> If you follow the recipe (without any of Gavin and Michael's idiotic mistakes) it is actually a Victoria Sponge. Hopefully yours turns out better than theirs!


End file.
